Somewhere In-Between (10 page)

An unseasonal arctic front sweeps through central British Columbia at the end of August. The black flies of summer, along with the annoying mosquitoes, disappear from the valley. Thunderheads boil up in the west. A week of chilling wind and rain on the Chilcotin plateau washes away the last threat of forest fires. The low elevation and the mountain ridges surrounding the ranch protect it from the extreme drops in temperatures common to the rest of the Chilcotin. Those same conditions cause the valley to turn into an oven of oppressive heat after another about-turn in the weather as the month winds down.

Unable to sleep Julie tosses and turns, trying to find a cooler spot on the sheets. The digital clock on her bedside table casts a green glow in the room. She glances at it again. It's ten minutes later than when she last checked. One thirty in the morning, and she's still awake. Her cotton nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body, she rises from bed. Bathed in moonlight streaming in through the living-room windows, she creeps downstairs and makes her way to the kitchen. Pouring herself a glass of red wine, she takes it, along with the rest of the bottle, out to the front patio and settles on the chaise lounge. The outside air is cool, but not nearly as chilling as some nights she's experienced this summer. There isn't a hint of wind; the air in the valley still clings to the day's heat.

Lifting the crystal wineglass to her lips, Julie takes a long sip, only then noticing the eerie glow in the northern sky. She lowers the glass and studies the jagged horizon at the end of the lake. Above the treetops, spirals and wispy fingers of colour undulate and dance against a black star-filled backdrop. Julie recognizes immediately that for the first time in her life she is witnessing the aurora borealis, the northern lights. Stunned by the unexpected display, she sits back to watch the brilliant colours and changing shapes in the night sky. Like an electrically charged curtain, ribbons of greens, fuchsias and yellows lift and fall, arch and intertwine, in an ethereal light show across the northern horizon.
Spirits dancing in the night
, she thinks. In another life she would have hurried upstairs and dragged Ian from sleep to see this. And in their other life he would have come, laughing at her childish excitement. Perhaps they would have gone skinny dipping to cool off, then made love. He probably would now if she could bring herself to go up to his room. This is what she misses most about him, his laughter, and his willingness to embrace any experience for the sheer thrill of sharing it with her. For a moment she is tempted. Forcing her thoughts away from there, she refills her suddenly empty glass.

When the bottle is finished, drawn by the brilliant night sky, and perhaps by the power of the wine, she rises and makes her way down the patio steps and across the lawn. At the water's edge, she tugs her nightgown over her head and lets it fall to the ground. Wading slowly into the water, she cringes at the cool temperature. The water climbs up her legs, to her waist, to her chest. Rather than shrink away from the numbing cold, she embraces the sensation, letting it pull her forward. She imagines herself continuing out to the middle of the lake, walking underwater until her breath is gone, and then her lifeless body floating in darkness, her hair fanning above her. Without warning the lake bottom drops away, and she is sinking, sinking into nothingness. She surrenders, lets herself go, feels herself smile at the simplicity of it. A painless way to end an endless pain. But her body, her exploding lungs, betray her. Against her will her arms and legs fight her inertia. Her head bursts through the surface, her mouth gasping for air. She beats her traitorous arms against the water with a choked cry. Treading water she catches her breath, and then, forcing herself to relax she turns over and lies on her back, her arms outstretched. She is tired, so tired. She feels as if she can float like this forever. Overhead, a million pinpoints of light glow above the dancing colours. The eerie sensation of the world being turned upside down, that she is looking down upon the universe instead of up, magnifies her feeling of insignificance. She closes her eyes. Beneath the surface, her ears pick up the distant vibrations of a loon's lonely call. She remains as still as possible, listening to the sound waves travelling through the water. Is anything more plaintive than the sorrowful call of the loon? Yes. The silence of a childless father, unable to say his daughter's name out loud.

The answering warbles turn into music. Julie lifts her head and shakes the water from her ears. A volley of echoing cries fills the night. And something more. Behind the mournful chorus she imagines she hears the strings of an accompanying violin. She even recognizes the melody. The haunting music sounds just like the strains of “Moonlight Sonata.”

A movement on the edge of her vision forces her to right herself in the water. She is further out than she thought. Treading water again, she turns toward the illuminated shore. There in the small bay to her right, silhouetted by the light from the tenant's cabin, is a dark figure swaying, moving in liquid rhythm with the music. Julie quickly sinks lower into the water. Unless their tenant has company, it can only be Virgil Blue, standing out on the end of his dock playing the violin.

In the morning Julie struggles to keep the shroud of slumber wrapped around her. The harder she tries to hang on to it, the more it eludes her. It lifts, as weightless as mist, taking with it the sensation of holding a delicious secret in her fragile grasp. Reluctantly she opens her eyes and reality sweeps in with the daylight. The pleasant feelings evaporate, replaced by the now familiar hollowness, and the scratching hair-shirt accusations.
How could you forget, how could you feel anything but pain when Darla is dead?
As if on cue, a headache blooms inside her skull.

Turning over slowly she squints at the clock. Nine thirty. Why hasn't Ian called her? He must be wondering why she's slept so late. She forces herself to sit up. She needs a drink of water. Her mouth tastes like fuzzy mold. Then she remembers the wine. Sudden fragmented visions of last night fill her aching head. The incredible night sky. A swim in the lake? The figure on the dock? Flopping back down on her pillow she massages her aching temples. Exactly how much was real and how much a dream? Or a result of all that wine? She runs a hand through her damp hair and groans. It's true. She was in the lake last night—drunk. She wonders if their tenant saw her.

Well, so what if he did? Isn't she allowed to swim in her own lake, in the middle of the night, naked, if she wants to?

Rising slowly she plods into the washroom, wondering if it really had been Virgil playing the violin. It just doesn't seem to fit the image she has of their tenant somehow. But then she knows very little about Virgil Blue—an arrangement that suits them both, she is certain. Yet, she finds herself curious. Whoever it was out on the dock last night, not only plays, but plays well—if her water- and wine-logged ears were any judge. It will remain a mystery though—there is no one she could ask, least of all Ian. The topic of their tenant is probably another off-limits subject.

She changes and goes downstairs to find the house empty. Then she remembers that it is the last Friday of the month. No wonder Ian hadn't bothered to wake her. He's gone to town; he won't be home until late tonight.

His twice-monthly trips to the office in town are strictly for the benefit of his clients. He never stays overnight. Even though the office has a small suite upstairs, he returns home no matter how late he works. His way of proving his fidelity? It isn't necessary. Julie isn't even certain if Valerie Ladner is still one of his clients. She won't ask. He won't say.

After fortifying herself with aspirin and coffee, she goes out to the front patio to clean up the evidence of her solitary drinking.

The morning air is crisp, fall creeping in on slow baby steps. The lake's motionless surface reflects a perfect image of the bordering trees and an unbroken blue sky. She glances to her left, to the pastures at the end of the lake. She has often spotted deer in the stubbled fields since haying season. They show up in herds to graze on the new shoots of grass. Sometimes, from the kitchen window she watches the bolder ones who, twitching their white tails, come right into the yard to munch on the front lawn.

A movement in the marshes at the mouth of the creek catches her eye. She squints into the light until a hulking brown form standing knee deep among the reeds, lifts a heavily antlered head. Water streaming from his bearded jaw, the moose chews unconcerned while staring in her direction. Julie remains unmoving as they keep a mutual eye on each other. The massive animal offers no threat at this distance, yet she feels her heartbeat quicken, the blood pounding in her ears.

Out of nowhere, last night's dangerous thoughts surface in her mind. Had she really tempted death out on the lake? Although she's not religious in the conventional terms, Julie has always held the belief that taking your own life is a cop-out, a selfish option. She has always believed that everyone has an obligation to life itself, to see it through, no matter what. After Darla's accident, the doctor had given Julie sleeping pills. But regardless of how sleep eluded her, since that fateful night when she had not woken to Darla's call, she has been unable to swallow one. Only now does she ask herself, why then, is she still hanging on to those pills?

Across the way, the bull moose turns and climbs up the creek bank. Sure-footed in his lumbering grace he crosses the meadow to clear the far fence without effort and disappears into the woods.

Julie goes inside to the kitchen and, still lost in thought, pours herself another cup of coffee. Staring out the window, she decides that, like the moose, there really was no danger last night; it was just the wine, that was all. She will have to be careful, though.

She forces her mind away from there, imagines herself telling Ian about the moose, which she had found strangely beautiful and ugly at the same time. She suddenly wishes she'd had a camera to capture that image.

When she was selling real estate, she had always been proud of her listing photographs. “You have an eye,” she was told more than once. A spark of something close to excitement ignites somewhere inside her. She is spending so much time outside now she might as well make use of it, capture some of these images. She could send them to Jessie and the girls. And to her mother, let her see that things are not completely bleak out here. An involuntary chuckle rises to the back of her throat at the idea of sending her a mother a photograph of a bull moose so close to her door.

She makes her way upstairs to the spare room, the room where her former life is stored. A room she has avoided. Ian refuses to go in there at all. When he had caught her packing up Darla's possessions for the move, he had accused her of hanging onto them as if she believes their daughter will return. But she can't let go of the dolls, the clothes, even the bedding that still carries the smell of Darla. And yet, after they moved in, Julie found herself unable to open any of the boxes, in fear of losing that scent, or losing herself to it.

Steeling herself, she avoids Darla's neatly stacked boxes on one side of the room, and checks the labels of the others until she finds the one from her real estate career. She roots through it and pulls out a leather camera case. Inside, firmly strapped against the plush red lining, her old 35mm and accessories wait as orderly as she had left them. Film canisters line the mesh side pockets. She removes the camera, and checks the film and batteries. They're still fine. The old Pentax is out-of-date technology, but she has always liked the quality of the photographs it produced. It feels like an old friend in her hands and she surprises herself with a smile as she snaps the lens cover back on. Just the idea of having a plan, having something creative to do, feels good somehow. She imagines Darla saying
it's about time
, but knows it's only her own inner voice trying too hard.

Hanging the camera strap over her shoulder, she goes back downstairs and pulls on her hiking boots. Outside, she avoids the pastures at this end of the lake, in case the moose is still hanging around, and heads to the north road. She will start by taking shots of the ranch house from the far end of the lake. She hasn't hiked this way since meeting their tenant in the garden last month. Today the fear of the moose outweighs her fear of running into Virgil Blue. The Clydesdales are no longer in the corral, so he's probably out working on his woodlot anyway.

Nearing the turnoff to his cabin she slows her pace. She peers down his driveway, but can make out nothing more than the fir and mountain ash trees encroaching on either side of the narrow road. Confused by a pang of disappointment she wonders what it was she expected to see? Or hear? The woods are quiet; no strains of violin music seep through the trees. Feeling a little ridiculous she resumes her speed walking. After a while her laboured breathing and the blood pounding in her ears gives way to the everyday hum and buzz of the forest: the staccato chattering of a squirrel scurrying down a tree trunk; the familiar cry of chickadees; the hollow thumping of grouse wings in the distance; and the raspy cries of crows winging through the branches above.

Crows. It seems to Julie that wherever she goes lately, there are crows.

Were they always there, or had she only begun to take notice of them on the day of Darla's funeral as she stood staring out of their family-room window while hushed voices droned on behind her?

I'm so sorry.

Is there anything I can do?

I'll just put this platter of egg salad sandwiches on the coffee table here.

Oh, please don't let me intrude.

I'm so, so, sorry.

Unless it was her sister speaking, she pretended not to hear.

Wishing everyone silenced, gone, she had concentrated on the ebony bird sitting like a lone sentry on the back porch railing. No cocking of his head back and forth, no fluffing of feathers, his bottomless black eyes stared into the window as if trying to connect with her soul.